WAYANAD, July 29 -- One recent rain-soaked morning, P Usman, clutching an umbrella, is making his way slowly past verdant tea plantations towards a large graveyard, fenced neatly with stone slabs. Opening the gate and taking a few steps in, Usman, in his late 50s, is quickly overwhelmed with emotion. His eyes well up. Inside the compound are scores of graves, most identified with names and photographs, and others marked only by small cement blocks. "That's my cousin sister Muhsina," he says, pointing to a grave marked by a black granite stone with her name etched on it. "And over there, her three children," he says, choking on his words. The rain is now heavier, and he moves closer to his sister's grave, and begins reciting prayers in Arabi...